Hell Train, Two Tickets Please
by Banana Rum
Summary: Mustang took the applications from the counter and thrust everything else to the back burner – literally. “I won’t die until I’ve held accomplishment to my lips and taken a healthy swig.” [Hughes x Mustang preIshval]


Hell Train, Two Tickets Please Fullmetal Alchemist fan fiction 

**Author: **kalliel

**Written For: **utari

**Pairing: **Hughes x Mustang

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Word Count: ** around 4,000

**Notes: **Pre-series speculation, takes place right before the start of the Ishval Rebellion. . As always, constructive criticism is much appreciated (and will be put to good use).

**.primo**

--

A small, ovular radio blared with a sudden onrush of static, filling the room with its own personal thunderstorm. (And from the back room, "Turn that God-fucking contraption _off_!") But as with all storms, natural or artificial, the static eventually buzzed to a low hum. A voice leapt out over the speakers.

"The struggle to maintain order in the east is mounting. Crossing checkpoints in the north are being abandoned in order to supply more influence to the east. However, some members of the moot are dubious of this move's effectiveness. Various officials have stated that this is only giving Drachma a chance to easily invade the northern border…"

Whatever succeeded the newsflashwas lost to the clank and clamor of brass pans and utensils as Roy Mustang tossed them into the sink basin. Despite the crisp frigidity of the outside air, inside the parlour it was sticky-hot and smelt unpleasantly of grease and dish soap. Mustang could only count himself lucky in that there were no tables to clean (the plot of land was too small for that); instead only a rounded crescent counter separated the kitchen from the street's edge.

The counter was shielded from snow and rain by a rounded overhang that alternated a sickly pink and off-white, like the bars of a forgotten candy cane. Thick, black words were scrawled diagonally across the overhang: HAMBURGER PETE'S – Finest Eats East of Central. In smaller, more recent print it read: No Gas Required. Environmentally Sound. Get your Alchemically Grilled Meats Today!

The latter message hadn't been there until Roy Mustang had come in search of work, of course. There was little pride in that claim, but when it came down to it, the pay was _insanely_ good. That was surprising, given the abhorrent state of the facilities, but the old man handed out cash like the local fly population laid eggs, all for Mustang to give customers a special show. After all, it wasn't every day that the average city folk got to see alchemy in action. One snap of his fingers, and all the beef patties would erupt in flames (inexplicable to adult tourists, magic to their children), nicely medium-well in one moment of awe.

Alchemy was a dying art. If there were doctors and surgeons who could heal ails without dabbling in the mystic and quite possibly forbidden, there really was no point in becoming an alchemist. In Amestris, with her guns and explosives, alchemy was an especially rare practice – there was no use for it.

Just then, a jovial customer walked into the shack from a pool of hazy streetlight, electric bulb flickering dimmer than a simple flame would have.

"Yo, Roy! Hey, you still working at this hour? I'm just getting home, too! Want to fire up a free bite for me?" A man, unprofessionally still dressed in his military blues under an expansive, many-pocketed black coat, called as he took up a stool at the counter.

(From the back office: "The only free bites you gonna get here are from the fleas! If you don't got the cash, then scram!")

"I was kidding, Mr. Hamburger Shack Owner. Sir!" The man sat erect, saluting in jest. "Honestly, though. I don't know _how_ you ever stay in business, if this is how you treat your regular paying customers."

("Oh, it's _you_. You lying bastard! You _never_ pay the full amount. Why do you keep coming back if you don't like my 'shack'? Eh? Eh? Tell me _that_.") Throughout this mockery of pleasantries, the owner of the shop never once bothered to show his face. Eventually, the other two forgot his parenthetical complaints.

"You know, Maes, you really shouldn't try to piss him off more than you already do by just coming this way. He'll probably contract a hired gun to come and kill you in a phone booth or something." Mustang advised as he slapped a dejected-looking piece of lettuce onto a newly grilled beef patty.

Hughes only laughed. "But if he did that, you'd have to come and avenge me and then he'd lose the only person who can supply dinner and a show, all in one! Oh, no lettuce. It looks… _maimed._"

"Oh, come on. The lettuce you have in your own icebox looks worse! You could have told me these details before I started, like everyone else." Mustang waggled the dead leaf in front of Hughes' face, making it a banner in the wind.

Stretching his arms in an arc above his head, Hughes yawned. "Maybe, but you don't see _me_ eating it. Besides, I saw this babe at work in the mess hall today. She works in typesetting for that Amestrian propaganda pamphlet. Her name's Gracia or Gracie – one of those. I don't want to be felled by potentially toxic _lettuce _– of all things! – before I get a chance to at least ask her out to dinner." Hughes attempted to strike a suggestive pose when he mentioned his co-worker, but the full effect was lost in his copious amounts of coat fabric.

"Oh, and are you going to set your date _here_ so I know you're not just making this military miracle girl up?" Mustang said.

"Are you kidding me? Why would I want to blow my chances with a typesetting goddess by taking her out into some suburban alleyway with bad lighting and an eternally foul odor? You _should_ see her, though. She's got the prettiest eyes." Hughes checked to see Mustang was still listening before giving him a sly glance. "Since I can't bring her to this dump, _you_ could come _there_.

"Here, I brought a flyer from the main office. They're looking for alchemists, Roy. This could be your big chance! Can you see those big red numbers? I mean, where else could you get a starting salary like _that_?"

Not this again. "How many times have we been through this? My mother would never – "

"Your _mother_," Hughes began, pushing up his glasses further up on his nose, "Looks and acts like a cactus."

_First typesetting goddesses and now cacti. It must be getting _really _late,_ Mustang thought. It was his mother who taught him the basics of her alchemy. Cactus or no, if he went to Central to apply for an alchemist position, it would be _him_ being hunted by hired guns. Only they would be knife assassins masked in shadow, because (from what he gathered of his mother's threats) that was the kind of country his mother came from. He decided to try an alternate strategy. "I don't care what the State does, Maes. It's not my problem, so why should I give up this job for a _chance_ at something I'm not involved in, anyway?"

Hughes looked as if he were about to try another joke, before he hesitated and looked Mustang right in the eyes. "It's going to become everyone's problem soon enough. I know you keep that shitty excuse for a radio in here, so you can't tell me you haven't heard the reports. There's a lot of tension between the big wigs back at the office, so the publicity crew isn't making this stuff up.

"I have a feeling things are going to get really big, really fast. And to be frank, Amestris isn't in any condition to be feuding within herself when her border countries are already breathing down her neck as it is. If you can get high enough in the next eight, ten years, you could be the one to change things!"

By this time, the Mustang was sure that Hughes was trying to appeal to his schoolboy self – top of his class just because he wanted to show that he could. But some naïve, hopeful part of him entertained the foolish notion that _he_ could be the one to put the brewing rebellion to rest before it even started. Eight, ten years? He could do that.

"I'll think about it. I'm not making any promises; I think the whole premise is a little suspicious. Why does the military want alchemists in the first place? It's been a dying art for _ages_. Nothing an alchemist could do would measure up to fire and gunpowder." His mother taught him the basics of all alchemy, but he had only seen it used when refining medicinal ingredients or making gold – and the latter was illegal, anyway. Of course, _he_ wasn't making medicine with alchemy. He was just grilling beef.

He imagined the charred remains of a human instead of a cow, snapping his fingers to end another's life instead of making a meal. Almost immediately, he put that possibility out of his mind

"Oh, great! Here are the forms and applications. I went ahead and filled most of it out for you, so all you have to do is sign them, and you'll be on your way to becoming an alchemist for the military! What did they call it on these applications? Oh, a State Alchemist. Fancy that."

Mustang gave the man a look that clearly expressed something along the lines of, "You planned this all from the start, didn't you?"

Hughes feigned innocence for a moment, raising his eyebrows like an apologetic puppy. Then he grinned and said, "Of course this was planned! How else was I supposed to string you along so far? Now, let's go to my place and smooth out the details. Your shift ended a long time ago – hell, Mr. Boss probably went home without telling you, since I haven't heard him jabbering away in a while. Let's go!"

(Finally, a retort from the back room: "I did _not_ go home, and neither will my _paid assistant_! He's still got to rinse the utensils! Wipe down the racks! Scour the pots! I don't hear that water running _now_, so I damn well better hear dishes _cleaning themselves_ if you two decide to skedaddle!")

In a push of decisiveness fuelled by one part rebellion and two parts ambition, Roy Mustang took the applications Hughes had laid on the (still soapy-wet) counter and thrust everything else to the back burner – literally. "Sir, I've burnt away most of the grease on the stove, so you may be able to salvage it for scrap metals. And you can use my wages for this week to buy a new stove – God knows you've needed another one for a long time."

For the first time that night, the shack owner revealed himself. He was tall, and stringy brown hair adorned his shoulders like a barbarian cape.

"No one is allowing you to leave. Not if the Fuhrer himself wanted your assistance. And he doesn't give a goddamn care about you, nor will he ever! I swear – you kids get these grandiose dreams into your heads and go off to do something daftly daring. You're just going to end up dead and disgraced if ya leave me for poppycock like that."

Even though Mustang had to look up to meet the old man's gaze, he suddenly felt high and above the plight of this hamburger man. Despite being dangerously close to unemployed (and quite probably homeless, once he told his mother this) he felt a raging power close to the surface – one that could be utilised to the utmost at the simple drop of a dime. Not bothering to marvel in this newfound warmth, Mustang said coolly, "Then deem this a suicide mission. But I've never seen a suicide attempt that reaped such great rewards when it failed. And it will fail, believe me. I don't plan on just up and dying until I've held accomplishment to my lips and taken a healthy swig."

With that, Mustang picked up his coat from inside one of the cupboards and threw it over his shoulders. "Come on, Maes. Let's see if this inkling of yours pans out."

Hughes chuckled, turning up the collar of his coat to discourage any wind from making the journey down his back. The two strode briskly out of the alley and into the main street.

Only a few peddlers remained in the chill, their breath casting a haze of white in front of them. Here, the light was of a harsher quality than in the sub-streets, which helped to minimize slipping on the frozen patches of cobblestone. The path was a well-travelled one, and both Hughes and Mustang shared an unspoken understanding that it was one best travelled in silence. In the cold, there was all the more reason to make the trek to Hughes' apartment – through linear streets, onto spindly residential roads and up wire stairs – in haste.

"I found a real nice bottle of happiness at an auction the other day. Want to try it out, in celebration of your new job?" Hughes asked, pushing the door open with one foot while he tried to untie the shoe of the other.

"I don't have a new job yet; it'd have to be a celebration of quitting my old one." Mustang pointed out, though a 'bottle of happiness' didn't sound too bad right now.

Hughes took that as a yes and grabbed some glasses from the sink. "Sorry the dishes aren't as clean as they should be. But all I was drinking was water last night, I swear. There shouldn't be any funny aftertaste from the cup's previous contents – really!

"I should just take all my cutlery to that hamburger shack and you can wash it for me. Oh wait – you don't work there anymore!"

"Very funny, Maes. I'm glad you're enjoying this so much. And you haven't even had a _drink_ yet." Mustang dropped down onto the couch with a definitive plop.

"Hey, that will soon be remedied, oh puissant friend of mine." Hughes climbed over the back of the couch and sat next to Mustang. Then he began to pour their drinks.

Puissant? What did that have to do with anything? Roy thought idly. The wine splashed into the only _slightly _greasy glasses, a strip of molten gold against a crystal prison.

The next hour consisted of almost nothing but impossible dares, interesting word choice (from Hughes) and the proper sarcastic retort (Mustang). But most of all, there was the seemingly bottomless bottle of gold. As far as either was concerned, these _were_ the chalices of accomplishment, and both had taken a great deal more than a single healthy swig.

Hughes planted a sloppy, wet kiss on Mustang's cheek. It smelt of wine and mint, but still reminded Mustang of a dog's slobbery tongue. "We shouldn't have sex tonight; there's a big day ahead of us." Hughes muttered, his head sinking into the ruddy cushions of the couch.

Mustang wasn't sure whether his companion was kidding or not, and was too drunk to really care. "Mm, well. There are always other nights."

Hughes looked up from the cushion blearily, pushing his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. "Not if I get with Gracia; I can't be two-timing her for some ugly old man."

"How about a striking, _young_ man?" Mustang quipped.

--

**.secondo**

--

This time, the journey to Hughes' apartment was colder and darker yet somehow more final. That fiery power inside him had not lessened, but it was thin and wiry, geared toward a fine pinpoint goal that was much higher than Hughes' apartment. A few times he almost tripped on an icy cobblestone or turned the wrong direction, not because he didn't know where his immediate destination was, but because he was looking for his destination far in the future.

If his mother had her way, he wouldn't be able to set foot in this city ever again. Thankfully she wouldn't, or else he really _wouldn't_ have a place to stay. As it was, he was sure that Hughes had also planned to have a penniless roommate during the months between his application and the actual exam.

His mother's voice had been sharp and twisted with agonizing contempt when she screamed, "Dishonour!" at him, and "You go sleep with dogs! You are no son of mine!"

He supposed it hardly mattered, though, because he wasn't planning on seeing her ever again. She was young enough; she could have more obedient sons if she wanted. This wasn't Xing, and she could remarry whenever she wanted. The original Mr. Mustang was long dead, anyhow.

Mustang couldn't help but grimace at the irony of those thoughts. If his mother's upbringing had been the root of her wild accusations, what on earth made him think that that upbringing would be compromised to find a new husband? It was all a stupid cycle of cause and effect, with a single cause and twice the effect.

Anyhow, it was all in the past. It didn't matter anymore, Mustang told himself.

But as he looked up at Hughes' apartment building, the last thing he recalled of his mother was her smile, her tender hands and soft lullabies in a language he would never know. Then his thoughts broke the waters of the present and future once more.

Walking up the mock-elegant wire stairway, Mustang noticed a few rose plants, one or two pots scattered every few steps. He wondered if they were going to be for Hughes' Gracie or Gracia one day. "Maes!" Mustang clanged the brass knocker against the wooden door a few times. "We're going to Central!"

"Aw, Roy. It's three in the morning – I just got _home_ from work! It's too early to be going back!" Hughes moaned, slumping against the doorframe.

"Well you better get dressed and come with me now, or eventually you'll get fired and we'll both be unemployed. Then who's supposed to support us while I study for this stupid exam? Besides, this is the time you _always_ leave. The train to Central isn't exactly fast."

"True," Hughes allowed. "But I usually give myself until at least quarter-till four. It gets me there on time most days. And I was with you half the time I was supposed to be sleeping, anyway. Do you have any idea how far out of the way that hamburger place was? No wonder business was so bad."

Disregarding any truth that may have held, Hughes was dressed and held two mushy pastries at the ready, one in each hand. "Here, take one. The train station is just two blocks east of here."

"I _know_ where the train station is, Maes. I live here too, whether you realise it or not."

"Oh, you're going to have to call me Second Lieutenant Hughes in Central. The big wigs get real prissy about that kind of stuff. And don't say anything _stupid_; wouldn't want to threaten some idiot colonel's authority. Without good reason, of course."

Hughes seemed to be enjoying this a great deal. Mustang might have too, if he hadn't spent the night firing himself from a perfectly stable, decent-paying occupation and getting disowned by his family. He was going to make this new direction _work_, no matter what the cost. He couldn't go home a failure, after all the big words he spouted.

When he reached the station office, he told the ticket master, "Two tickets to Central, please."

At the same time, Hughes began quietly singing, "Two tickets to hell, please… Two tickets for the lady and me – two tickets, two tickets to hell…"

"Excuse me, what did you say sir?" The young woman inquired politely, turning a blind eye to the antics of her customer's partner. She was no stranger to the vagaries of early-morning commuters.

"Two tickets, to _Central_, please."

--

**.fine**

--

While the next seven months were definitely not hell, the eighth month came awfully close to deserving that label. Three weeks and six days into the eighth month, with just a little over a week left until the third official State Alchemist exam, each new applicant received a letter from the Fuhrer himself.

"Hey, that's great news, Roy. I'm glad you bothered to call me for once. A letter from the Fuhrer! That means that something pretty special must be going on, huh? Speaking of special, guess what I'm doing for our anniversary? No, not me and _you_. My girlfriend! I got reservations at that one restaurant in the fish district. Do you have any idea how expensive up-class imported seafood is?"

"That's nice Maes, but the Fuhrer said he was going to change the – " Mustang managed, before he was interrupted once more. _This_ was why their phone conversations never got anywhere.

"The shrimp there are delicious, Larry told me. I can't wait! Gracia is planning on wearing her blue silk – the one she wore on out first date! She looks sexier than a love goddess; she should have been a model, not stuck in a military office! Not that I'm complaining mind you. But, see – "

"One of our men shot an Ishval child in the streets. _Seventeen people are dead_; twelve of them and five of us. The eastern unrest has been officially declared _war_." Mustang's voice rose in a crescendo, until by the last word he was almost shouting. Once he was sure he had Hughes' full attention, he dropped to an intense whisper. "So, the Fuhrer informed us that the State exams would be temporarily altered, because of the immediate nature of the war. He's bypassing the written exam."

Mustang could hear Colonel Basque Gran's contemptuous timbre as he read the letter aloud:

"Applicants on the roster after November 1906 will be the first men implemented into the wartime State Alchemy Exam. All written tests will be omitted, and the practical will be altered to suit the current needs of the military. Applicants will be tested on efficiency of array drawing and activating, general endurance, and accuracy.

As opposed to holding the exam on the fourteenth of September, exam day will be this Thursday. Use the next three days to refine your technique."

Some had cheered at this news, those with little hope of passing the written test in particular. However, Mustang saw only burnt remains. The charred carcasses of human beings. Humans instead of cows, ending a life instead of feeding one.

That was what he saw now, too, but he did not tell Hughes that. Likely he wouldn't understand, and even if he did, he would pretend he didn't. "The Fuhrer also told us to fill out the exam day application with our State Alchemist title, as he would be busy preparing for the war."

"That seems pretty unceremonious. I mean, what if two people choose the same name? And if someone failed, what would be the point in taking the time to choose a name?" Hughes reasoned.

"It wouldn't have been that much of a waste of time. Even though the letter said the application was to be filled out on exam day, the officials went ahead and had everyone fill in the form right then."

"Oh, really? What did you pick? I hope it wasn't something dumb like the Dragonbreath Alchemist. Or the Crystal Alchemist or something."

"There _is_ a Crystal Alchemist – do you know Doctor Marcoh? And Silver, Gold, Iron Blood and Burst Alchemists as well. Where did you come up with Dragonbreath? I'm not an idiot. Come Friday people will call me the Flame Alchemist."

"That's dumb, too. Try sneaking up on an enemy camp with a name like that. Oh no! The _Flame Alchemist _is coming! Oh, what does he do? He works with _flames?_ I never would have guessed! I'm going to stick to calling you Roy."

"Thank you for your undying support. _Really_, Maes. Your compliments are too kind. Would that I had some of my own to repay you."

Hughes started laughing on the other side of the phone. "Hey, when you're Fuhrer, you can repay me by letting me, my wife, and all my children live like royalty in that Fuhrer's Mansion or whatever. You can have my apartment." Then he grew serious.

"You're making sure no one is listening to all this, right?"

"If you're thinking of doing something illegal, they _do_ tap the lines from time to time. With our luck, you'll get us both caught. But no, no one is physically listening at this moment. Why?"

"You always told me that you didn't know why the military was taking an interest in alchemy all of the sudden. You made it seem like a dying art with no long lasting purpose. They Fuhrer and everyone else are expecting you to die with your alchemy, Roy. The State Alchemists are supposed to be a one-time bomb. It's truly a suicide mission, like you said that night to Hamburger Man.

"You could still get a desk job like me. No one said you had to become a State Alchemist in order to make it to the top. The current Fuhrer isn't an alchemist. You've got other talents, pal. You don't need to, you know…" Hughes trailed off.

Mustang took a deep breath. "Should I die next week, or three months from now, or a year, it won't be until I've held accomplishment to my lips and taken a healthy swig."

-_fin_


End file.
